Falling Slowly
by MyClementine
Summary: He wondered how her little diamond earring could possibly fit so perfect in the palm of his hand.
1. Chapter 1

His was dark at his house thank god. He stalked slowly through the overgrown weeds in the front yard, his boots sinking into the marshy mud. The tire swing was swaying slightly in the wind. He remember sitting there when he when he was little. He'd unfasten the screws on the screen of his window and crawl through at the latest hours of the night and just sit and listen to the quiet. John walked over to the swing and placed a hand on the fraying yellow rope. He looked up at the grooves his many silent nights of swinging made. He remembered swinging so high he could almost reach the top branch of the tree. He'd think, just a little bit higher, a little bit higher and maybe and maybe I'll reach it. But he never did. John slowly turned and sat lightly on the wooden plank. He hoped it would hold him. He used to be on it everyday but that was like 70 pounds ago. He had both his hands parallel, fastened to the rope above his head. His dad built this for him. A long time ago. He was 5. And he just thought it was the greatest thing he'd ever seen. His dad spent all but 10 minutes putting it together. But John didn't notice. He was 5. And 10 minutes or 10 hours weren't that different. What really mattered was who made it. Even at 5, John remembered how much he knew it meant. His father wasn't like he was now back then. He would sometimes play with him even. He would be a monster, growling and meandering towards him like Frankenstein and John would run away laughing and screaming and go hide in his closet or under his bed with a smile on his face, heart racing. And his father would appear, and poke his head under the drooping patchwork blankets of his bed and yell boo. And then he would squeal and dart from under the bed and run out his bedroom door in search for another hiding spot, knowing his father would always find him. Never considering that maybe after a while, he might stop looking.

John rested his head against the tattered rope and closed his eyes. He tried to let his self go back. Go back to when things were okay. When his father used to pull his white plastic chair out of the garage and set it in front of the swing and laugh as John swung, pulling leaves off the branches when he reached the edges of the tree. He would try so hard to reach that top branch and show his father he could. But he could only reach the leaves.

He smiled remembering. Why couldn't things have stayed like that? But was it really okay then? When did it start going down hill? When did things start slipping? What if things were already starting to get bad? Was that why he built it? The swing. Because he was guilty? Because he knew things were getting bad. He remembered his dad only sat out here with him and watched him a few times. And then he just stopped. And then he wouldn't play monster with him anymore. John didn't understand. But he'd still ask him anyway. And every time was 'no, I'm sorry'. And then after a while it was just 'no', and then 'NO!' and then finally it was 'NO!' with a smack to the side of his face. And then John stopped asking.

John accidentally let a tear slip down the side of his face. But he quickly wiped it off with sleeve of his denim jacket. Even though he was alone he couldn't cry. He just didn't do that. He couldn't. He opened his eyes and saw his empty yard. He saw the brown faded paint splotches on the side of the house. He saw the decaying birdbath in the corner engulfed by weeds, and the engine from his father's old car rusted and chipping, a multitude of creatures living underneath it. He saw the spot where his father used to sit in that plastic chair. He saw the sign he made with him nailed the tree that said 'Johns swing'. He saw the cracks in the cement from the earthquake when he was 6 and his dad got mad that they didn't have enough money to pay to get it fixed, so it just stayed like that. He saw the crack in the glass from when he was 10 and his father threw that plate at his mothers head when she said something nasty to him, but he missed when she ducked into the corner. He saw the dent in the front door from when he shoved him into it after he heard that John had broken the lamp in the living room when he was 14. He saw a bit of dried brown paint, seeping out from under the garage door. He pulled up his checkered shirt and looked at the scar of a cigar burn on the inner part of his arm. It didnt matter how many times or how long he stared at it, it wasnt going to go away. He reached his hand up to to his ear and found a very familiar small little dimond earing. He abruptly yanked his sleeve down and then quickly backed way up on the swing so he was all the way on his toes. He let go and went sailing into the air. He pushed. Higher. He kept reaching. He'd fly back and then lurch forward. Just a few inches away. Lunging. Reaching. Just a little bit higher. Just a couple centimeters. His hands grasping, desperately. His fingers extending as far as they could possibly go, leaping from the palm of his hand, knuckles turning white. And then finally. The tips of his finger felt the rough wood of the top branch of his tree. They wrapped around the edge for only a moment, before he silently slung backwards, towards the ground. He swayed for a bit, completely still, before slowly coming to stop. And then he sat in the quiet for a while. Just like when he was little. Except this time was different.

He sat in the quiet for the longest time, before he got up, a smile entraced at the corners of his mouth. He silently walked to the driveway, unhuried, down the street. And he didnt look back. And you could see a faint glimmer behind his hair, near his right ear as he walked into the white glow of the street lamps.


	2. Chapter 2

Once upon a time, in a high tower that overlooked a suburban paradise, lay a beautiful princess, dreaming of a revolution. A very small revolution. But a revolution none the less. She was laying perfectly still, placed gracefully in the center of her bed, covers unwrinkled covering her up to where the lace began on her night shirt. A small glass of water that had grown room temperature and stale over the night sat on her night stand on top of a water-stained magazine. The sun from the window over her bed shined through the crystal heart pendant that was hanging off the lamp on her desk, and ricocheted through it, projecting a glowing snow of light around the room.

Claire opened her eyes to the lights that escaped from the window. She turned over letting her eyes refocus on the brightness of the alarm clock. The numbers didn't matter to her, it was the threatening words at the bottom that had her startled. It was Monday. "Ohhh" she moaned, rolling onto her back again, placing a pillow over face. She wanted to stay in bed and hide under the covers as long as she could. Forever if at all possible. Maybe her mother could home-school her? She winced under the fabric at the horrible idea. Had all of this really happened? Was it all a dream? Her twisting stomach wanted it to be but her heart was desperate for something entirely different. Suddenly the sheets felt scratchy, as if they were throwing her out of bed, forcing her to face the daylight. She hoisted herself up and out of bed, and shuffled into her worn cotton bunny slippers. She scuffled down the elegant glistening staircase and into the great dining room. The gleaming mahogany table stretched to ends of the earth, but was completely empty except for a small plate of toast and a glass of orange juice at the very end. Running her fingers along the smooth edges of the table she found her seat. She looked at all the empty chairs surrounding her and sighed to her breakfast. So Claire sat in the silence of her empty dinning room and hummed conversations between her and the invisible guests seated among her.

Claire watched the trees zip past and blur together as she inched closer to what was surely her doom. She fiddled with the pearl buttons on her sweater, as her father argued with the radio. The car bumpered up into the driveway and screeched to a stop in front of Shermer High Schools looming front doors. Claire stared out the foggy window for a moment before she sighed grabbing her bag off the floor and stepped out of the car.

"You okay princess" her father asked, his eye brows furrowed together with worry.

"I'm fine" she murmured, leaning over the seat reaching for her makeup bag.

"You're here awful early sweetheart"

She glanced up at him, with eyes that warned to be quiet.

"Just be careful okay? Theres hardly anyone here yet." He warned.

"Okay daddy. Thank you" She said with a patient smile, slinging her bag over her shoulder, and she shut the car door with a soft thud.

Her chalky pink heels clicked up the concrete steps, before stopping in front of the main doorway. She looked her watch, and then at the street, and then at her watch again. When did he usually come? Probably not this early. Of course not this early. Even she knew that. She could be at home in the heat of her cozy living room. But she couldn't stay at home for a second longer than she had or she was afraid her stomach might leap right up out of her. But now she was here, and she was all by herself, with nothing to do. Perhaps she didn't quite think this all the way through. She huffed and sat down on the top step and pulled her corduroy skirt down where it was inching up past her knee. Then suddenly a car pulled up, exhaust clouding around it. A short blond kid in a pull over sweater came out of the car, and it pulled away to the street. He turned around and glanced up at where she was sitting and went back to fidgeting with his shirt. Then he paused, and his head slowly raised up to see the girl sitting in front of him again, eyes wide. Then suddenly he exclaimed "Claire!" and went stumbling over himself up the steps, arms stretched out before him. He crashed into her, sending her purse flying up to the door of the hallway.

"High Brian!" she laughed.

"What's up? How have you been? Crazy weekend huh? So How are you?" he questioned, running the questions together.

"Well I'm fine I guess. Nothing new. Well not since Saturday. So…"

He gave her a 'I know that's not it' look, with a bonus of suggestive eye brows.

"Okay fine!" She sighed "Brian I am so nervous. I don't know what to do with myself. I was pacing all morning. And I feel sick. I couldn't even eat this morning. Isn't that crazy? I couldn't think about anything else this whole weekend. All I could think about was him. My mother thought I was going crazy. And...I...must be! I must be crazy what other reason could there be?" She smiled, knowing that there was. "But Brian…what if he doesn't act different today?"

What if he does act different? "What if he doesn't even come to school?" She wouldn't blame him though, shed seriously considered it her self earlier this morning.

"Claire, If there was one day for John Bender to come to school…today is the day." He stated very matter of factly, grinning. "Okay?"

She turned to looked at him for a moment and then looked back at the deserted, quiet street, hoping to see a figure in a dark brown over coat walking towards them, but all she saw was a women in sweatpants jogging the opposite way, into the mist.

"Okay." She said.


	3. Chapter 3

John was waltzed up the vacant street to the school at about a quarter after 9, clunking his combat boots up the sidewalk. The fact that school starts at 8:30 at Shermer High school, didn't seem to faze him, or didn't bother him at least. He swung his key chain around his index finger as he jumped up the steps two at a time. John couldn't remember the last time he wanted to go to school, the last time he was actually excited about it. Who in there right state of mind would ever be anxious to go to school, with the exception of Brain perhaps? But still, he had an enormous number of butterflies accumulating in his stomach increasing by each step closer he got to the front door of the school. Well maybe his new found enthusiasm wasn't necessarily academically targeted, but perhaps more Claire Standish targeted. But more or less it still got him here about a half an hour earlier than he usually showed up.

John wandered down the empty hallways, pulling every lock on his way to class to see if it was open. Usually people were pretty good about it, not wanting anything to get stolen, like they knew it would. But someone must have been in a hurry this morning, because the entire door was still slightly ajar. They were just lucky that good old John Bender found it first. He unhooked the lock and hung it from one of his belt loops as he searched through the contents of locker number 1984. He took a #2 pencil and five bucks out of some a leather wallet with indented flowers on the top and slammed the locker shut. And with a smirk he flipped the lock, hooked it onto lock bar, and went on his merry way singing the tune to some made up song he only carried in his head.

John eyed the words U.S. History CP Room I12 printed on the front the door in menacing big black letters, he silently slipped in through the door and snuck to his seat in the back row with incredible stealth. Mrs. Watson, poor Mrs. Watson. The woman could barely see three feet in front of her, despite the six inch thick glasses she carried on the bridge of her stubby nose. It didn't really matter if he showed up to this class of not because she always seemed to mistake John for the Ficus that was situated behind his desk, which was completely fine with him. John found this out when he got up to sharpen a pencil (that he wasn't using for notes, but was instead etching certain unnamable profanities onto the edge of his desk). He was called on to answer some ridiculous question about the "Know nothings". Now this opportunity to mock his historical ancestors was almost taken, if Mrs. Watson hadn't continued to talk to his empty seat, or rather the fake plant that sat right behind him. This was probably the best moment in the most boring class in 'history' that he had experienced so far, so he stood silent by the pencil sharpener and let his teacher continue to berate the innocent plastic plant.

Again Mrs. Watson didn't seem to notice his absence nor his late arrival, but continued to drone on about the early political parties of the US. Now extra time in this class in particular was spent glorifying his desk with his stupendous artistic abilities. Along with every curse word known to man, Bender had also embellished the desk with numerous colorful pieces of artwork ranging from some immodest parts of the female anatomy to Vernon in various life threatening predicaments, such as being caught on fire. So in reality 1st period was more of an art class than a US history class, for John anyway. But this time he felt like branching off from his normal creative endeavors and tried something new. When the bell rang and every student rushed for the doorway, almost creating a fire hazard, Johns was the first one out the door. And amongst the skulls and flaming teachers on the edge of the desk was a heart traced a thousand and two times, accompanied by a small C right in the middle, exactly where is should be.

Shop went by fast. Shop always went by fast. And today was especially miraculous because nobody got hurt, a common occurrence in this class. And no more stupid elephant lamps either. Chemistry was awful. But its chemistry, so what else can you expect? He hadn't seen anybody all day. He thought he saw Andy on the field running laps with his team while he was on his way to 3rd period, but they all kinda look the same. John scuffed into Mr. Duncan's art class, and spotted a familiar face. Allison was seated in the very left back corner, hiding behind he easel. John skipped over to her, which is quite a remarkable task in army boots, and flung himself dramatically on the seat next to her. Allison raised her eyebrows, paint brush frozen in midair, with an expression that could either be construed as amused or extremely frightened. John chose the second one and immediately got out his paint brushes like good boy and set them neatly along the table. "So…what are we painting today"? Allison still hadn't moved from her frozen position.

"What the hell is a parabola? Is that even English? It sounds French." He thought reclining back in the plastic chair. " 'You stupid American. You don't know anything. You are such a parabola.'

"John, have you even started your homework?"

Ms. Rosen was a very nice woman. She was probably in her mid twenties but didn't look a day over 13. Most teachers gave up on him after a few weeks of school, and stopped asking him to participate in class, or would keep giving him shit for not doing work that they very well knew he wouldn't do anyway. But Ms. Rosen seemed to genuinely care about his education and well being, so he decided to never swear her out no matter how annoying her ceaseless interrogating was.

"Ms. Rosen, I consider you a fairly intelligent woman, after 6 months of seeing me, day in and day out, having plenty of time to observe my study habits, and past participation, I would have expected you to already know the answer to that question,…mam."

After s very stimulating conversation of Middle English vs. Modern English John was freed to buzzing hallway by the school bell. John ducked and weaved through the halls and around all the people and set off on a search for a girl missing a diamond earring.


End file.
